So Derek had stood by as his father attacked the Mulbernian garrison that guarded the dam which stemmed the flow of water needed for the newly dug irrigation canals the count had commissioned for the fields of northern Camria. The count’s victory had been short-lived: Duke Bergen, who was a seasoned warrior, a veteran of the bloody Seven-Year War with Agienna, the realm of the Outer Isles, had not taken the offense lightly. Just as Derek had predicted, his forces crushed whatever meager defense Camria had to offer in a battle that had cost Johan his life, and which Derek had been lucky to escape with only an arrow wound—and a new title that weighed heavier than a mountain.
The room he entered served as a stark reminder of that weight. Derek rarely spent time in his father’s study, and never when the count wasn’t there. Without him, the small, cramped room felt empty and stale, like a tomb. Mementos of his father’s presence were still strewn everywhere—the ledgers and the letters piled haphazardly on the carved redwood desk, the dried quill discarded in haste, the faded tapestries adorned with the Camrian coat of arms with its heraldic sparrow that had graced the walls for as long as Derek could remember. A map of Camria and the neighboring fiefdoms—which belonged to the Great Realm of Ivicia, along the shores of the Sevia River—was half-unrolled at the corner of the desk, catching Derek’s attention.
He traced a finger along the winding line of the river, upward, contrary to its course, past the village of Laurel Falls where the battle with the duke’s forces had been fought, until he came up to a large dot that marked Irthorg, the capital of Mulberny. It was hardly more than a castle surrounded by a small town and a few farmsteads. Derek had never seen it in person, and he wished he never would. Now, with Count Johan gone, Camria needed him, even if he couldn’t quite measure up to everybody’s expectations of a strong ruler. He lacked his father’s ruthlessness, a trait as necessary for a fief lord as the ability to breathe. People liked him and sometimes listened to him when he used reasonable enough arguments to sway their opinion, but it was hardly enough. It certainly hadn’t been enough to impress his father. It hadn’t been enough to protect his people.
But there was something he could do now to amend his failures. Perhaps he was a coward for giving in to Duke Bergen’s demands, as Macon seemed to believe him to be. And he was afraid, so afraid he was making the wrong move, the wrong decision. So much depended on it, and yet he couldn’t think of any other way to secure the peace they so desperately needed. Camria had grown soft, placid in years of quiet and relative prosperity. A single battle had sent the entire fiefdom reeling; a war would be nothing short of devastating. If he was a coward for scrambling to prevent it, there was nothing he could do about it.
He rolled the map and sat at the desk, pushing the books and papers away to clear some space with one hand. The dull gleam from the heavy signet ring that now adorned his finger caught his eye, and he splayed his hand to study the silhouette of a flying sparrow engraved deeply into the green stone’s surface.
This had been his father’s ring, his seal, the token of his office. It felt foreign on Derek’s hand, weighing him down, and he tore his gaze away from it with a twinge of guilt.
Taking out a fresh sheaf of paper, he dipped the quill in the inkwell, and began penning his letter of acceptance.
Chapter Two
UNDER DIFFERENT CIRCUMSTANCES, the outing could have been a pleasant one. The last breath of summer still lingered in the air, scented with the smell of grass and wildflowers, and the southward road wound its way around steep hills that gradually gave way to green plains and meadows dotted with grazing sheep.
Callan loosened his grip on the reins and lifted his head toward the caress of a warm, gentle breeze, so different than the gales that swept the high walls of Irthorg Castle. They weren’t so far from the sea that he couldn’t smell its salty freshness on the wind, but the scenery was a welcome change from the barren cliffs of the shoreline.
The road Callan and his party were currently taking was by far the most traveled, as it connected Mulberny and Camria and continued on south through Urgan and Hundara, where it met the old King’s Road to Oifel. Usually, it saw heavy traffic—farmers’ carts, merchants’ wagons, lone travelers or messengers hurrying along their business—but following the conflict between their neighboring fiefdoms, the trade had trickled down to an almost complete standstill.
Callan scowled at the thought. Count Johan must have been out of his mind to challenge Mulberny in such reckless fashion, over something that could have been easily solved with careful negotiations and amendments to trade agreements. And now Callan was effectively being punished for the old count’s folly by having to marry his eldest son.
He had railed against his father’s decision, of course. After Idona, he had no desire to be wed to anyone, even if the union was merely a political one. This marriage of convenience was neither really convenient nor necessary, and he couldn’t understand his father’s sudden desire to strengthen the ties with Camria in this manner. After the beating they’ve received, he hardly thought the Camrians would rise again against them. A simple treaty would have been enough, but for some reason his father had been adamant that he marry the new count. Derek.
In the end, Callan had no choice. He couldn’t defy the duke—not when presented with a direct order. And so now he was on his way to meet his intended and escort him to the castle as a gesture of courtesy.
Callan would have rather take on a ship full of rogue Agiennan pirates bare-handed.
Sensing his seething anger, Arrow, his gray gelding, tossed his head in agitation, and Callan pushed down on his irritation. He could do this. He could be civil to his future husband, at least, even if the thought of once again taking another person’s hand in his in front of an altar made him want to vomit.
His lieutenant, Leandre, rode up to him, her sun-bleached flaxen hair pleated in a tight braid around her head, her black cloak snug around her shoulders.
“There’s an armed company coming up the road toward us,” she said.
“Finally,” Callan muttered. He’d enjoyed the ride so far, but every mile that brought him closer to the Camrian delegation soured his already lousy mood, and he yearned to be done with the welcome. For all he cared, he’d rather only to show up for the ceremony and forgo all these fake niceties altogether.
Now he could see it too—about two dozen men on horseback cresting a hill and descending into a narrow valley, where the road widened as it skirted the side of a small lake. Green and gold banners, tiny at this distance, flapped over their pikes. When the Camrians reached the bend, a man in the lead, whom Callan assumed to be the new count, lifted his hand, calling the company to halt, and waited for Callan’s party to approach.
As far as Callan could remember, he hadn’t met Derek before, but he was told the man had fought alongside his father, apparently in full support of the count’s foolhardy ways. Seeing him now, Callan could well believe it. Derek had a good seat, controlling his horse with little effort despite having his left arm tied up in a sling. A sword hung below his saddle, its simple leather-wrapped hilt worn with use, and he was dressed in plain riding attire fit for traveling rather than finery. While not strikingly handsome by any standard, he was trim and had a pleasant enough face, framed by mousy-brown hair that curled just above his ears. He had an air of competence about him that Callan had learned to recognize over years of campaigning, but there was also a youthful softness Callan was hard-pressed to pinpoint. It lurked somewhere in the depth of Derek’s brown eyes, in the curved line of his lips, in the way the man waited docilely for him to draw near.
Callan didn’t like soft men—or women, or those who were neither. It was a liability for any warrior, however young, a weakness that endangered not only themselves but also those who were under their protection. Mulberny, especially, could not afford a weak ruler, even if he was a joint one by right of marriage.
He rode out as his followers hung back, and Derek did the same.
“Coun
t Derek,” Callan said. He was trying for polite, but his voice was probably about as warm as the bottom of the nearby lake.
The other man guided his horse to stand abreast with Callan’s, and they clasped their hands together in greeting. There was a wary look to Derek’s eyes, which had dark circles beneath them, suggestive of long nights without sleep, but even so, Callan couldn’t help but note how beautiful they were, dark and deep, framed with long lashes. He’d never seen eyes like that on a man before, a doe’s eyes filled with lively intelligence.
Derek’s horse shifted nervously when he let go of the reins. Encumbered by having his other arm pressed close to his body in a sling, he wavered for a split second, and Callan instinctively tightened his grip on the man’s hand, steadying him.
Derek flushed in what was most likely embarrassment, a blush spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. The faint tinge of color unexpectedly made him appear almost pretty. Equally unexpectedly, Callan found himself wondering what Derek might look like without the distorting veneer of anxiety and fatigue, with his eyes glinting and his lips tugged in a smile rather than set in a hard line.
The young count nodded curtly and withdrew his hand. Callan let his own hand fall as if nothing had happened.
“Welcome to Irthorg,” he said. “Did you have a nice journey?”
Derek, whose injury was clearly hurting him a great deal if the stiffness in his shoulders was anything to go by, nodded.
“Yes, thank you, it was fine. It’s a beautiful country,” he added with a touch of something Callan could almost mistake for sincerity.
“It is,” Callan said curtly and gestured for Derek to follow him.
Pleasantries safely concluded, Callan turned his horse around and fell in beside his guest, leading the way back without another word, his men flanking the Camrian contingent on either side at Leandre’s sign. The nervous glances the Camrians cast at his men told him they felt more under an armed escort than a welcome cortege. Now, he could make out the Camrian ruling family’s crest on their banners, a gold sparrow in flight on a field of green.
A vapid bird. How fitting.
Occasionally, Callan risked a glance at his groom when he was sure Derek wasn’t paying him attention, inexplicably curious despite his earlier aversion. Callan didn’t know what he’d been expecting, really—maybe someone haughty and entitled, somebody much like Count Johan. But Derek seemed none of those things. He kept quiet and didn’t try to strike up a conversation, which suited Callan just fine.
A man of about forty or perhaps a little older followed the count closely. Like almost every other person in their little group, he bore the evidence of the recent battle etched into his face in the form of a fresh red scar by his hairline. Callan assumed he was the Captain of the Count’s Guard, judging by the unfamiliar insignia on the pins of his cloak and the tense, hostile looks he was giving both Callan and Leandre. Farther behind rode two youths, so very like Derek in appearance as to leave little doubt who they were. The older brother gazed around curiously, while the younger, little more than a child, stared gloomily at the road ahead, refusing to acknowledge anyone else’s presence.
The noonday sun burned high in the sky when they reached a knoll that placed them within seeing distance of Irthorg. The ancestral home of the Dukes of Mulberny stood on sheer white cliffs overlooking the sea, the foaming waves crashing incessantly far below. Its stone walls darkened with age and weather, the dwelling had been built as a fortress against invasions of sea raiders, and served this purpose to this day. But the recent generations of occupants had expanded on it, adding new structures, gardens, and walkways, softening its otherwise severe appearance. A small town had sprung up around the foot of the hill, encircled by a sturdy wall, with several roads leading into it from different directions.
Derek’s mouth tightened at the sight, and Callan suppressed an irrational flash of resentment. Despite his polite words, this newcomer was probably too cosseted to either appreciate the stark, rugged beauty of this land, where the cold sea met the sky, or to weather its dangers. What was he to do with such a one for a husband?
After about an hour, they reached the main gates of the town, which stood open during the day but were nonetheless guarded. The watchmen saluted Callan as he rode past, and he nodded back.
Inside the town, the road merged into a narrower street that wound its way upward, going past the large market square, bustling with activity, and the two- and three-storied townhouses, which grew larger and more affluent the higher they climbed. People gathered along the streets and hung out of the windows to watch their procession, and small children ran behind their horses, laughing.
The main keep was separated from the rest of the town by a drawbridge that spanned a natural fissure in the bedrock. As they passed over the bridge, the Camrians glanced down uneasily at the tips of jagged gray rocks far below.
They rode into the lower bailey, where they dismounted. Derek slid off his mare with such graceless stiffness that Callan almost lunged to catch him, but stopped himself at the last moment. Derek had managed the dismount himself, and Callan would rather not cause further discomfort by extending help that wasn’t asked for.
Thankfully, one of Derek’s brothers—the older one—came to his side, no doubt to offer discreet support. The youngest sibling threw the reins of his horse jerkily to the stable hand. The boy was about Adele’s age, but Callan had a feeling his sister was by far more mature than the spoiled brat.
In any case, their guests were now safely inside the keep, and his duties were thus concluded. Medwin, the castellan, was already waiting to show them to their rooms. Callan headed for the stairs to the gallery, ignoring the surprised look his future husband shot his way, but was stopped by a servant when he reached the passage to the family quarters.
“My lord, His Grace requests your immediate presence.”
Callan’s gut lurched unpleasantly. He had a hunch his father’s desire to see him had nothing to do with idle curiosity. With a nod to the servant, he turned and hurried down a different hallway.
CALLAN STRODE RIGHT into his father’s study without bothering to knock, still wearing his riding clothes. Neither of them stood on ceremony—especially not when the summons had been so urgent.
The duke’s study was, for the lack of a better word, austere. The only furnishings, aside from a huge fireplace, consisted of a large writing desk, a few chairs, and shelves stacked with rolled maps and a selection of books. The duke was seated at the desk, writing a letter. The only item of luxury in the room sat on the desk in front of him, filled with water—a silver goblet etched with minute images of bloodhounds chasing a fox. Callan remembered playing with it as a child, sitting by the fireplace on the wolfskin rug while his father conferred with his lieutenants or received messengers from the more distant provinces.
“What happened?” he asked without preamble.
Bergen raised his head and waved him in. Callan closed the door and lowered himself into a chair opposite his father’s desk. The tall narrow windows of the study looked out over the cliffs, letting in the early afternoon light along with a chilly breeze and the hum of the waves, a sound that had permeated his life with such constancy he barely registered it anymore.
“There have been reports of more raiders pillaging the villages north of Bryluen,” Bergen said, his words clipped. He indicated a stack of letters sitting neatly on the edge of his desk.
“Again?” Callan frowned.
Pirates attacking the coastal regions was hardly a rare occurrence, but this year saw an abnormal increase in raids throughout the last weeks of summer. This hadn’t happened since the signing of the peace treaty with the Outer Isles following the Seven-Year War—a truce which Callan’s first marriage had been meant to solidify.
How exceptionally well that had turned out.
“The survivors’ accounts speak of pirate ships, but it’s not hard to guess who is really behind those attacks,” Bergen said, his eyes bor
ing into him. Callan resisted the urge to fidget in his chair, reminding himself he was a twenty-six-year-old man, not a timid child, and took the letters to occupy his hands and avoid the duke’s icy gaze.
“We don’t know that,” he ventured, skimming the uneven handwriting on a half-torn piece of paper.
The reports were bad. They always were, but some of these new ones contained details of excessive brutality. Farms and entire villages burned, their inhabitants raped and slaughtered, their bodies left behind in pieces as an offering for the carrion birds, which the Agiennans worshiped as the messengers of their gods. Callan gritted his teeth. It was no wonder Bergen wasted no time informing him of these, despite the wedding preparations.
“They wouldn’t be half so brazen without someone backing them up,” the duke said. “The Danulf clan is by far the strongest in Agienna. It is why you—”
“Yes, I remember,” Callan said, a little more harshly than he intended.
Bergen raised an eyebrow, but otherwise showed no indignation at his insolence, and continued:
“The Danulf have been grasping for ways to exact revenge on Mulberny ever since they broke the treaty. The other clans have no desire for another war, which is why they’ve refrained from open conflict so far. But I’ve no doubt the Danulf are the ones sparking trouble along our coast.”
Guilt stirred deep inside Callan, a familiar pang that never failed to manifest itself whenever the subject of the Danulf was brought up. Whenever Idona’s name was mentioned. It never really went away, merely slept beneath his breastbone as a lump of dull ache until it was called out to the surface.
“But why now?” he asked. “Why would the Danulf act against the will of the other clans if they were reluctant to do it in the past?”
The Wolf and the Sparrow Page 2